


Dark as Dawn, Bright as Dusk

by BlueSkiedandClear



Category: Hannibal (TV), King Arthur (2004), Ladyhawke (1985)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Alternate Universe - Ladyhawke Fusion, And a hawk, Angst with a Happy Ending, Animal Traits, Animal Transformation, Bows & Arrows, Canon-Typical Violence, Christianity, Clarice is a thief, Day/Night cycle is respected, Fairy Tale Curses, Fluff and Angst, Forests, Hannibal is a battle name, Inspired by Ladyhawke (1985), Knights - Freeform, M/M, Middle Ages, Moon and Sun are almost characters, No Smut, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Out of Character, Rated Mature for reasons, Swords & Sorcery, The author is a roman catholic, Tristan is a black knight, Will is a damsel in distress, Wolfish Violence, a lot of romance, and a wolf, but it has sense, don't bully her, galahad is a battle name, i think, it's a mess, it's fantasy, just a bit, please, read the tags, so the ship is basically Tristan/Will, sorry - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-09
Updated: 2021-02-07
Packaged: 2021-03-09 18:08:51
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 16,258
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27980532
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BlueSkiedandClear/pseuds/BlueSkiedandClear
Summary: Tristan is a man during the day, and a wolf at night.Will is a hawk during the day, and a man at night.They were cursed.Clarice, a young thief, escapes the dungeons of Aygle and crushes into the knight with the black horse.All is set in a very imaginary Camelot.Magic happens.And love fairy tales from the '80s.DISCLAIMER:It's a big mash up. Read the tags. Notes at the beginning and at the end of every chapter. First chapter is a flashback.Updated once a week!
Relationships: Galahad/Tristan (King Arthur 2004), Will Graham/Hannibal Lecter
Comments: 6
Kudos: 18





	1. Matins

**Author's Note:**

> In order to help you, is strongly recommended to know both King Arthur and Ladyhawke.  
> The protagonists are basically a fusion of Hannibal/Tristan and Will/Galahad in the roles of Etienne Navarre and Isabeu of Anjou.  
> The plot diverges a bit. There are more characters and some necessary adaptations.  
> The curse and its reason are the same.  
> There is no smut. But it's very romantic.  
> Please, mind the tags, and as always, remember I'm not an English native.

_Three Years before_

The clatter of swords resounds in the clear air of morning with the slightest echo, followed close by a grunt. Umblanced by the clash, the man with blue eyes falls on a knee, his weapon dug in the ground. His opponent extends a gloved hand, and he accepts with a snort, getting up.

“ I'm always too slow for you, it seems. ” The blue eyed man notes, brushing grass and dirt from his knee pad.

The other smiles barely:

“ You rely too much on your strenght, and don't pay too much attention on your enemy's moves. Think like them, Francis, how Master Robertus used to say. ”

The man called Francis grimaces, at the memory:

“ He never put much trust in me, I believe. ” He confesses.

“ I do. ”

The other retorts.

“ Lucky me you're not Robertus, Tristan. ”

Tristan shrugs:

“ He was right in being hard with us. He made me the man I am today. ” He comments, then adds:

“ And you're a good fighter. You just need to trust your rationality more, Francis. ”

“ If you say so. ” Francis rebukes, but he's clouded over. Tristan holds back a frown: he said the truth, he really thinks that Francis is a good knight, strong and lethal, but he's also moody, lonely and bad-tempered. Not the best choice to lead the Bishop's palace guard, but all his best men are already busy. Besides, the Dolarhydes are one of the most powerful families in the city, he just cannot refuse an high-profile role to their heir.

“ I say so. ” Tristan confirms: “ We are here since dawn, we both need a decent meal and a clean tunic. Come on. ” He pushes Francis, who follows him through the wood, in silence.

The city of Aygle stands out the dark emerald hills and rocky uplands which surrounds it, like a white pearl against a velvet cloth. Beyond its high, thick walls, the majestic Bishop's palace is clearly visible at a distance, right beside the cathedral, above a bunch of mansions, towers and fortifications. Its a perfect bastion, at the northern borders of Camelot, close to the previous Woads' lands, but despite the peace still threaten by other enemies. Or, so Bishop Germanius uses to say, and the Bishop's word is law.

As Tristan and Francis cross the city gate, one of Lord Crawford's manservants approaches them with a polite bow:

“ My Lords, my master greets you and humbly requests the grace of your presence, as soon as you please. ” The boy announces, handing out a message. Tristan accepts it, and replies:

“ Tell your master that we will be visiting him within an hour. And send our regards to lady Bella. ”

Once the boy is disappeared along the city streets, Tristan turns to Francis:

“ Better to get ready, then. I will meet you at Crawford's house. Be safe.” He greets him. Dolarhyde nods and takes his leave.

While heading towards his quarters, Tristan comes across a group of clerics who approaches the cathedral hurriedly. He vaguely wonders what reception is in preparation, and if its involves his convocation by the city's seneschal. Tristan knew lord Crawford since his retirement from king Arthur's army: he was already seneschal of Aygle, and they established quickly a bond of trust and friendship. The knight was aware that a summoning of this sort must be about something more serious than a function.

Jack Crawford welcomes them from his table, in the middle of his main hall, where a army of servants is setting a massive adornment, with flowers and garlands.

“ Come, come, my friends. I apologize for the fuss. Brian, bring the wine! ” Lord Crawford yells at one boy, who hurries with a tray and goblets. Once his hosts are settled in, the seneschal resumes his speaking:

“ We are going to host a feast tonight, which you are both, of course, invited, but it's not the reason why I have summoned you, lords. ”

He takes a long sip of wine:

“ I have to celebrate the arrival of my godson, Will, recently orphaned, poor boy. Fiery warrior his father was, God bless him. ”

Lord Jack sighs and shakes his head:

“ The lad worries me. So young and so unaware of the world. He's intended to be one of our king's knights, like you were, Tristan. But he's quite a wild creature, very intelligent, but with too little discipline. And I'm old. ” He complains.

Tristan doesn't need more explanations:

“ I would take the education of your godson willingly, my lord. ” He assures, with a little bow of his head. It's not the first time that some wealthy lord entrusts him with one of their scions, usually spoiled boys in need of some hours of hard work. This boy seems no different, but Tristan is curious.

“ If I could, my lord, why is this boy troubling you so much? ” He asks.

Jack sighs again:

“ It's a good lad, really, quick learner and affectionate. But he's also impulsive, fierce, and dangerously handsome. I don't like too much how he draws attentions to himself, inadvertently. ”

The lord looks around, and lowers his voice, forcing the two knights to move close to hear him:

“ This must stay between us, my lords.”

Both Tristan and Francis assure their discretion, and the seneschal goes on:

“ I have the suspect that our Bishop had noticed him, in a way that I don't really want to mention. We know how His Grace could be in his claims. ” He whispers.

Tristan notices how Dolarhyde bites his bottom lip, in worry, but he just confirms to the troubled lord his support.

“ I'm sure he's going to have the best education with you, my lords. Allow me to introduce him to you. ” Lord Crawford offers, and then he gives the order to a servant to summon the lad to the hall.

Meanwhile, Tristan politely asks about lady Crawford's health, which is sadly delicate, and Francis speaks briefly about his family.

“ My lad, come. I wish to introduce you some valiant lords. ” Crawford addresses his godson, at the door.

Tristan turns, sipping his wine, and for a moment he fears he's going to choke himself.

The senechal was right, the young man's beauty is really dangerous. He could call him lad, but Will is in mid-twenties, at least. Young, certainly, but not a child. Under a fine, embroidered tunic he has a well-trained physique, though not imponent at all. His creamy complexion fits better to a court lady than a knight, but he has long, strong legs, arms and hands trained to weapons, even with delicate fingers. His face belongs to a roman sculpture, with his sharp but beautiful features, blue ocean eyes, dark, soft curls, the mouth of a nymph, sensuous even with his refined stubble.

Tristan's heart aches, beating furiously, and his mind is enraptured, but he has too much self-control to let his emotions go unleashed. He bows his head in a greet, but he can't manage to take his eyes off from Will. The young man moves forward slowly, almost mildly bored. His ocean gaze lingers on Tristan for some moments, strangely unreadable, and he bows in return:

“ It's a honor to meet you, my lords. ” He greets them.

There is a calm coolness in his voice, like someone who's not used to speak uselessly. A serious boy, then, maybe grieving, but it seems more a usual behaviour, don't giving others about himself more than necessary. For Tristan, it's an interesting trait. Maybe he was too quick in his judgement.

“ The lord your godfather has entrusted me and sir Dolarhyde with your martial education. ” Tristan explains, his voice still and confident: “ I hope you find us acceptable, my lord. ”

Will stares at him, his lips slightly parted, shiny and red like rubies:

“ Lord Crawford told me everything about you, of course, lord Navarre. You were one of our king's knights. The greatest honor. I am eager to learn chivalry from you, my lord. ” He replies, charming and utterly seductive in every breath, without doing anything to be so. He's just this way, naturally. Tristan understands more his guardian's concern. And if is true that the Bishop desires him... Tristan is in a big trouble. He's already willing to fight the world itself for this magnificent, celestial being.

“ And I am impatient to have you as my disciple, my lord. ” He retorts, in a soft tone.

Will rewards him with a heavenly, dimpled smile, but he returns serious, addressing Francis:

“ You are learning from lord Navarre, if I am correct, and I heard you are a great warrior, too. I can't wait to learn from your experience. ” He declares, politely.

“ I will do my best to please you, my lord.” Francis murmurs, and Tristan feels he's shattered and struck like he is, but in a different way. He seems almost frightened by the boy, for some reason.

“ Well, well, I'm happy to see you so obliging, dear lad. These knights will make you a perfect lord out of you. ” Crawford comments, pleased.

Will nods slightly, then he speaks again:

“ May I speak with lord Navarre for a moment, my lord? He's going to be my mentor, after all. ”

“ Of course, if lord Navarre agrees. ”

Obviously, Tristan agrees.

Will leads him to a little study, just a bit far from the main hall. Once there, Will makes sure the door is well closed, then heads towards an escritoire. From a small box, he fishes a pack of letters, all sealed.

“ My godfather doesn't know about these.” Will explains, giving them to Tristan: “ And I wish he keeps going in his ignorance. ”

Will crosses his arms, uncomfortable:

“ Those are letters, poems, invitations from Bishop Germanius. They were sent already the day after my arrival, a week ago. I never met His Grace, but he knows all about me. These words are... very dark, they scare me. I asked my godfather for a mentor, and he agreed to ask you, knowing nothing about my real worries. I'm sorry for all of this, but I'm afraid, my lord. I'm so afraid. ”

Tristan feels the violent urge to protect Will with all his strenght, and a burning jealousy and rage at the thought of the Bishop harassing his Will in this way. His Will, he's going mad, Tristan thinks, his heart clenching.

“ Lord Crawford will know anything about it from me, I promise. And I will keep the Bishop away from you, my lord. At any cost. ” Tristan swears, this irrational passion painting his words, abruptly.

Instead of being startled by it, Will smiles again, clearly moved:

“ Call me Will, if you please. I looked at you in the training grounds from my window every day, lord Navarre. You seemed invincible. So fierce, and beautiful...”

Will falls silent, blushing in the most delicious way. Tristan feels his heart positively melting in his chest. What an unexpected, unvaluable treasure life is giving to him.

He kneels in front of Will, taking his hands in his:

“ Will, beautiful and precious creature. I am your knight, if you want me. I will protect you, I will teach you how to fight. The Bishop will have to summon every demon to take me from you. ” He promises.

Tears shine in Will's ocean eyes:

“ My lord, if this is a dream, don't wake me. It's so fast, I can barely think.” He exhales, struck by emotion.

Tristan stands:

“ We have plenty of times to figure it out, Will. Now, my task is to keep the Bishop at his place. Let's be defender and defended, for now. ” He suggests.

“ You are... you are right of course.” Will sighs, a little shaken: “ Please, come to the feast, tonight. I dream of a dance with you, my lord. ”

“ I will be there, I promise.”

The banquet is as magnificent as anyone could imagine, with roast courses, game, cakes and finest wines. Lord Crawford has no spared himself, to introduce formally his godson to his fellow citizens of Aygle.

As expected, Will of Anjou has all eyes in the hall upon him, as he enters in the vast room, but his gaze seeks only for his knight, who stands discreetly in a corner, prone, as always, to be in the background.

Will has asked about Tristan to everyone he could, without raising undesired suspicions. He learned that he and the Bishop are not in good relationship, despite Navarre being the former Captain of the Guards, and it's so, probably because Tristan is not the usual bootlicker at the Bishop's service. He's reserved, honorable, loyal, a true knight. All very good reasons for Will to fall for him so easily. His knight could be cautious how much he wishes, but the young man knows very well what he wants, and what he's ready to do, in order to have it.

Tristan meets his eyes, across the room, and raises his chalice in a silent, and most subtle greet. He has just passed the strangest day of his strange life, almost drunk with feelings. Cruel thing love is, appearing fast like a flashlight, leaving the flesh scarred like a sword stab does. He never believed in such thing like love at first sight, but now he thinks he has to consider again his beliefs.

However, Tristan has more pressant urges to resolve: if the Bishop discovered their affair, he could sentence lord Navarre to death, under false accuses, nothing easier for such a powerful and feared man. He could even force Will to his lewd attentions. The thought alone makes Tristan's blood boil, and he needs to think rationally. Who he can trust, really?

Bors and Dagonet, his old fellows, are his first thought. They are still like brothers to him. And he can rely on the king and queen's friendship: Arthur and Guinivere are most prone to help him, in faith to their old vows. He and Will could escape to Camelot, a long trip south, and dangerous, too, but it could be necessary.

The knight sips his wine, thoughtful: they never kissed, or declared to each other and he already plans to run away with Will. Maybe he's got enchanted. Tristan glances at the boy, again, his mouth dry. If it's a spell, he wishes it would never been broken.

“ Tristan! ”

He hears, suddendly. He turns, to find Francis heading towards him, accompanied by the Bishop himself. Tristan has to hold back a frown: maybe young Dolarhyde is unaware of the hatred between Germanius and him, but the Bishop has clearly no excuses.

However, a knight never forgets his education: Tristan bows politely and kisses the Bishop's ring.

“ Sir Navarre.” Germanius addresses him, with a glacial smile, which doesn't reach his malicious eyes.

“ Me and sir Francis were discussing your excellent choice in putting him at your formal place. It was sad seeing you renounce to your role at my service. But the city is more safe with you at its guard, it doesn't? ”

“ I hope it is so, Your Grace. ” Tristan replies, neutrally.

The Bishop looks openly to the central table, towards the Lord and his family, and Tristan knows he's watching Will. He keeps his face straight, like a mask.

“ Splendid feast our seneschal has offered us. And for his lovely protegé. I heard you met the young man. ” The Bishop adds.

Damn tattlers, even the walls in this city have ears, Tristan curses in his mind, but he manages a courteous smile:

“ I did. He's a young heir, like dozens I've already met. ” He says.

“ Are you going to mentor him, perhaps? Lord Crawford mentioned something of this sort. ”

And damn Jack, too. Now, Will and Tristan have to be a thousand time more cautious.

“ He said the truth. Lord of Anjou is intended to be a knight.” Tristan offers. He gazes at Francis, subtly: he knows too the Bishop's offers to Will. Why he seems so posed about it? Maybe it's just a scene.

A merry thrill conveniently interrupts the conversation: the dances are about to begin.

“ Ah, the mundane rite of dancing. I think this is for me the time to take my leave. Have a good night, my lords. ” The Bishop says, and with a snap, he calls to his guards.

Tristan observes him leaving the hall, and he's just about to question Dolarhyde about his strange behaviour of a moment ago, when he's called by a female voice.

Lady Margot Verger, nephew of the Bishop, literally slides towards them, her rich gown shining in gold details.

“ Sir Navarre, sir Dolarhyde, it's a pleasure to meet you both, tonight.” She greets them, kindly.

Both reply to her greet, and she addresses Tristan almost immediately, taking his arm:

“ Would you grant me the honor of your company for a dance, my lord? ” She asks, in an explicit tone. She is clearly eager to speak with him in private. Tristan nods, and let her lead him to the center of the hall.

Lady Verger is one of his most old acquaitances in Aygle: a particularly gorgeous young lady, smart and sweet, widowed soon, clunched by a vicious brother who tyrannizes her cruelly. Tristan had already helped her in some occasions, and he wonders if her friendship could be in any use, in his involvement with Will.

They align with the other dancers, and he looks at Will, who smiles at him from behind his cup.

The musicians start a simple ballad, and Margot awaits until they were close enough to speak briefly:

“ You have to be careful, sir Tristan...”

She changes partner, and everytime when she returns to him, she resumes her discourse:

“ My uncle is not in his mind...”

“ The young Anjou lord he's making he crazy...”

“ And he plans to have him anyway...”

“ He's tracing anyone is close or getting close to the young man...”

“ You're going to be his mentor...”

“ If you can, bring the boy away from here, soon...”

“ Before it's too late...”

The first dance stops, and Tristan stares at Margot with a cold fear, very careful to keep his face neutral. Love or not love, he has to protect Will anyway.

“ Tristan.”

A soft voice, he already could recognize among a hundred, tears him away from his thoughts. Will stands before him:

“ Would you grant me the pleasure of a dance, my lord? ”

He should refuse, he knows it so well. But Tristan just nods, his heart fluttering in his chest like a moth in a flame.

The music begins, and Tristan holds back a curse: the little devil has chosen a couple dance, of course.

His Will turns and dances with all the grace one could imagine, taking his hand with feather-like touches, glancing at him in a way it makes Tristan glad they are moving, so no one cannot read their faces.

It ends too soon, anyway, and after a bow, Will whispers in his ear:

“ Meet me at the barns. They are deserted now. ”

Tristan watches him go, his breath still short, ragged. At least, he could warn him about the danger. If they have time.

The Bishop's chambers are decorated, luxurious, nothing that Francis Dolarhyde hasn't seen before, in one of his family's palaces, but here it seems almost out of place, like something out of fashion.

“ You has been very brave and pious, my son.” Germanius addresses him, pouring a cup of wine. Francis accepts it and sips:

“ It has to be done. Navarre doesn't deserve to be at your service, or at Aygle's service. I've heard that he was a sort of sorcerer, under Arthur's command. And he's blind... so blind. ” The knight retorts, bitterly.

“ It happens so often, to have a valuable friend and not recognize his worth... I promise that Tristan < of Navarre will pay for his slowness towards you.” The Bishop guarantees. Dolarhyde glances at him:

“ Should we act now, or...? ” He begins, but the Bishop makes a gesture with his hand:

“ Don't be hasty, my friend. Let's the knight and the young siren have their garden of sins for a little while. Let's them feel safe. And at the right moment... we will crush them. ” He states, with a smile.


	2. Lauds

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Now begins the actual story.  
> I will be quoting the original movie a lot, but the plot it's not exactly the same. Meet the characters, and a bit of meta, I think?  
> Feel free to imagine Clarice as you like, I don't want to describe her much. Plus, she's a girl of sixteen/seventeen years old, but not be afraid, there will not be any underage. Remember, the story is not smut, and the only romance will be between the two main characters.  
> Enjoy!

_Three years later_

There is a strange peace in the peal through the stone walls of the dungeons, over the stench of dozens of bodies pressed one to another, inside cells which look like slaughterhouses. Another kind of peace in the abrupt snap of a neck, on the gallows.

Poor, mad Sammie hums something, while the guards collect a couple of guys from the cells.

“ I want the girl, the one they call “The Starling”! ” The deputy of Captain Dolarhyde yells from outside. The guards approach her place, which she usually shares with mad Sammie. One of them taps the mental boy on a shoulder, rudely:

“ Where's the girl? ” He asks.

Mad Sammie hums again:

“ The Starling flew away, flew away... in the sew, my lord...”

The guard watches the tiny, narrow passage carved in the filthy floor:

“ No one could slit here! Take this mad, we'll hang him instead of her! ” He orders the other, who grabs mad Sammie and drags him away.

Far beneath the dungeons, in the cold, disgusting water flowing under the fortress, Clarice swims with all her strenght, very aware she has not much time. The black stream is freezing and full of bones, mud and trash, but it's anyway cleaner than her filthy clothes, covered in dirt and now soaked. If the thin tunic she wears could be called clothing, she thinks, shaking, sinking her head underwater. She knows there must be a grate, not so far.

Clarice was sent to clean the sew many times, during her incarceration. All for a saddle. The girl shakes away the memories, for now: first of all, she has to focus on leaving Aygle alive.

The grate is there, where she expects it, and for miracle, is broken.

“ My Lord, I swear to be so good, You could almost compare me to a nun! ” Clarice exclaims, swimming faster. The grate leads to a stream, which flows directly outside the city walls, she recalls. It's done.

Clarice was not a thief, once. Anyway, she doesn't wish to be one, but when you're poor, orphaned and alone, you don't have too much choice. She still risks to find herself in a lewd brothel, so theft was better, at that time.

Now, she's free. Away from those nobles who treat her like scum, from hypocritical clergy, but most of all, away from Aygle.

The tiny girl breaks the surface of water with a big breath, which burns her throat, in search for air. Luckily for her, the day is sunny and warm, and she crawls outside the moat, dripping like a fish. The bells start to chime wildly.

Clarice quickly squeezes her miserable tunic, and runs in the fields, heading towards the forest as fast as she can: the guards will start to search for her very soon. But she's a smart girl, and she knows the lands. Instead of aiming to south, where the bigger cities are, she heads to smaller villages at east, where there are some castles too, where she could hide, like a stable boy, or a laundress, if she's unlucky.

She's climbed on a branch tree, when she sees the soldiers ride in the right opposite of her direction. With a little smirk, Clarice jumps out of the tree and resumes her run through the forest, pine needles, leaves and woods creaking under her bare feet.

The booming laugh of Bors can be heard, before the man himself appears at the end of the road. Dagonet turns, knowing his laugh too much well. Around him and his men, the light chatters, the clinging of glasses on the tables, the fire cracking under the pot are almost softening the sounds of the little army approaching the hostelry.

“ Dag! ”

His former comrade steps in the vast hall, drawing some curious glare in his direction. Dagonet greets him with a quick hug, they don't see each other from a long time. Bors sits heavily beside him, with a huff, and gestures to a girl, to serve he and his men. While she pours wine in his glass, Bors looks at Dagonet with affection:

“ It's good to see you, brother. It's... two years whole I didn't hear nothing from you, not a word, for God! ” He notes, with a grimace.

Dagonet shrugs:

“ We've both been busy, Bors. How are Vanora and your kids? ” He replies, in a quiet tone. Bors laughs again:

“ Oh, they're eleven, now! And Vanora could truly be called a lady, now, believe me.” He answers, merrily.

“ I do. ” Dagonet affirms.

They sip their wine for a while, then Bors speaks again:

“ I can guess you're on these places for the same reason I am. ” He says, in a more serious tone.

Dagonet nods:

“ Of course. Bishop Germanius' guards visited my castle two days ago. This girl must be an elf, if she managed to escape them for so long. ” He notes.

Bors grumbles:

“ They came to me, too. I had to hold back Two and Three from punching those stupid faces. Rabid dogs, what could one expect from scums led by a man who calls himself “ The Red Dragon”? That pretentious prick... If only Hannibal was still with us...” He sighs, and empties his glass.

Dagonet understands the feeling: since they were dismissed from Arthur's service, everyone has settled himself good, or so they believed. He, Bors and Gawain have castles and lands, wives and children. Lancelot is still in Camelot, with the king and queen, the greatest hero in their realm. God only knows why Tristan, Hannibal on the battleground, accepted to stay under Bishop's claws. He clearly despised Germanius since before the Saxons' defeat.

Three years ago, when he came back to Camelot with a young, handsome knight, he was clearly in trouble, but he never opened himself to them. Even Merlin didn't know what haunted him and his lover. Suddendly, how they appeared, they disappeared one night, and no one never heard from them again.

That left Aygle in a state of complete submission to Germanius' vices and cruelty, Seneschal Crawford exhiled and citizens bullied by the men of Francis Dolarhyde, the violent and arrogant new Captain of the Guards.

Bors and Dagonet drink again, musing gloomily on those matters. Executions are now a daily show in Aygle's domains, it's not a surprise that someone tries to escape, from time to time. The shocking new is that one succeeds, in truth, and a girl, furthermore. It's probably that, which pushes Germanius to make such a fuss about one single pickpocket.

“ If they catch her, Germanius will do a show of her hanging. ” Bors resumes, and Dagonet nods:

“ Sure thing. As sure is that I'm not helping them find her. I see enough hanged in the streets.” He states, and Bors agrees sonorously.

They are at their fourth cup of wine, when they hear a sort of squeak and the crashes of glasses hitting the ground.

“ Keep you hands off, dick! ” A girl yells in the middle of the hostelry. She's a thin teenager, wrapped in a peasant's dress clearly too large for her. A soldier still holds his fingers around the sachet she brings tied on her belt:

“ How a little, ragged farmer like you has so much money? ” He asks viciously, making his comrades laugh.

She twitches away from his grip:

“ Mind your business, _sir._ ” The girl rebukes, mocking the title.

The man loses his temper:

“ I will teach you good manners, brat! I am one of the Bishop's guard, you must pay me respect! ” He barks, lifting his hand to slap her.

She doesn't seem intimidated at all: quickly, she grabs a pitcher and crashes it in the face of the soldier.

“ Catch her! ” One of the comrades at the table yells, jumping on his feet: “ She is that thief, the Starling girl! ”

She has fled out of the door, before they could collect them. Dagonet and Bors look at each other, and with a glance between them, they follow quickly the hunt. If it's possible, they will help the girl run away.

The scene outside the tavern it's almost comical, if the girl's life wasn't in danger: she's dodging the men around her, quick as a mouse, pushing them away, sliding under their legs, jumping on tables, wriggling out their grasp. People around squeak and scream, but everyone seems to freeze, when a tall man walks in the court, his pace calm, the hand posed lazily on the sword's knob. Tristan would recognize him among a hundred: Francis Dolarhyde. He frowns lightly on his horse, but remains still, observing.

Dolarhyde approaches the scene with detachment, possibly bored. He watches for a moment the girl trying to escape along a canopy, surrounded by guards, who try clumsily to catch her from beneath. He glances at her and pretends a clap, in scorn, gesturing her to come down.

The girl watches around, for an escape, but jumps out the canopy, ready to run again, but a soldier grabs her from her hair and holds her tight.

“ What a play you performed, little Starling. We're very amused, right? ” The Captain addresses his guards, who agreed with low laughs. Dolarhyde turns towards the girl his glacial stare:

“ I'm afraid the play is over, now. ” He looks at two of his men:

“ Kill her. ” He orders, dryly. The two grabs the girl and tie her to a pillar of the canopy. Dolarhyde's deputy draws his sword, but before he could barely swing the blade, a shout echoes in the courtyard:

“ So, this is your justice, dragon scum? ” Bors yells, drawing his own weapon, Dagonet beside him. Dolarhyde faces them, with a smirk:

“ Look who we have here: Arminius and Divico, if I recall correctly. ” He greets them, in mockery.

Bors grunts:

“ Look who we have here, the lizard too coward to join a real army. Where were you, when Arthur Castus summoned his troops against the Saxons? Crawling under the gowns of Lords and Bishops, if I recall correctly. ”

Bors and Dagonet's men both laugh, but the latter stares at the captain, stone-faced:

“ Are not trials in order at Aygle, anymore? Now the Bishop's dogs behead children in the middle of taverns, it seems. ”

Dolarhyde grimaces at this:

“ The girl is a convicted criminal, Lord Dagonet. It's my right to get rid of her as quick as the Bishop orders. ” He retorts.

Bors barks a bitter laugh:

“ What did she steal, a hen? ” He inquires, ironic.

“ A saddle. ” The girl replies, before one of the guards orders her to stay quiet.

Bors and Dagonet look at each other, and the latter resumes his speak:

“ Germanius is lucky to be a clergy man. His folk cannot endure his tyranny for much longer. Release the girl, it could be your best decision of today. ” He says.

Dolarhyde gives them an arrogant look:

“ Knights or not, I can have you arrested, right now. Leave this place, _Lords_ , or this could be very unpleasant.” He threats.

“ Do you think you can frighten us, puny lizard? ” Bors growls, and his men draw their swords behind him.

The captain turns abruptly to his men:

“ Catch these rioters! ” He yells, drawing his own long sword and attacking Dagonet.

They barely cross their blades, when a bolt flies straight through the two of them and drives itself in the canopy's pillar, just an inch above the girl's head. She gasps, and everybody turns, to see a black figure on a dark stallion, a crossbow in the gloved hands.

Clarice can touch the feathers of the bolts with her fingertips. With a hammering heart, her glance bounces from the two knights who spoke in her favor a few moments ago and the newcomer: he dismounts gracefully and walks slowly towards her. Without a word, he begins to untie the rope who blocks her arms, hands her his crossbow, and with the smallest gesture of the head, he signals her to leave. She obeys as fast as she can.

Just outside the courtyard, Clarice finds the guards' horses, tries to mount one to escape, but they balk savagely. While she's still there, a struggle's clamor holds her where she is. After a moment of uncertainty, she climbs the wall, and peeps into the scene.

The stranger dressed in black has engaged the captain in a duel, and the two are fighting very hard, their moves so quick, she can barely follow them.

Though Dolarhyde was able, the stranger is clearly more skillful: he moves his weird sword, thin and slightly curved, with expertise, and in few moments his opponent is on the ground, the blade against his throat.

From there, Clarice can't hear the words the knight and the two lords exchange, nor what the captain is spitting, but his tone is obviously enraged. The black knight fights briefly with some guards, then, he pushes Dolarhyde on a hearth, and his cape starts to burn, between his pained scream. Clarice sees the stranger hopping on his massive horse, and fleeing, and she jumps out the wall and begins to run. Between the screams and the uproar of hoofs, she hears a name: “ Navarre! ”

Clarice has almost reached the end of the road, when she catches a glimpse of the knight's black horse, right behind her. She tries to go faster, but the knight grabs her by the waist and pulls her on the saddle.

Bewildered and shaking, grasping the leather of the saddle with all her strenght, Clarice sees the guards approaching them at a fast pace.

“ Oh, my Lord, if You save me this time, I will not steal again, I swear! ” She whispers, terrified, bouncing on the horse's back, certain she's going to slip away at any minute. The knight holds the reins securely, and he ignores completely his companion's mutterings, keeping on riding through the country.

Only when they cover a few miles, he slows the pace of his steed and helps Clarice to sit straight on the saddle, between his arms. The knight rides without a word, until they reach a wood, and a screech distract them both from the road. The man raises an arm and welcomes a magnificent hawk.

“ Is it yours, milord? ” Clarice asks, breaking the silence. A silly question, she knows, but she needs to say something, anything. Her thoughts, in those few hours have been more confused and strange than ever: who is this man? Why he saved her? Why the lords at the holstery didn't come with them? What he wants from her?

Unusually for Clarice, she has been very quiet and still on the horse, hoping he would have initiated a conversation, sooner or later. She craves to hear his voice: until now she is half convinced he's a sort of spirit, and hearing him talk, it would make him more human.

Clarice has no fear to admit she's very intimidated by this dark, silent knight, but she's embarassed, too. She's aware of her back pressed on his chest, of his strong arms surrounding her like a cage, but a good-looking one. She feels herself blush lightly, and she thinks is very stupid, she hasn't even seen his face properly.

“ It is.” He answers, plainly. _Great_ , Clarice muses, _he has a nice voice, too_. Warm and deep, but sad, in some way. She feels a sort of sympathy for him:

“ It is very beautiful. ” She notes, in a kind tone.

“ You are capable to take care of it, I suppose. And my horse, too.” He inquires. It's not a real question.

“ Of course, milord.” Clarice replies.

The knight nods, apparently satisfied:

“ There is smoke, in front of us. We could ask for shelter there. The sunset is near.” He affirms. Clarice glances through the trees, sure that they still will have light for at least three hours, but she doesn't rebut. Maybe, he doesn't want to face the woods at night.

There is a hut, indeed, in a clearing. The sneaky woodcutter gazes at them with a stern face, but when the knight mentions a compensation for his trouble, he rapidly accepts to let them occupy the barn.

Clarice helps the knight to set the horse, and curries it, under his attentive gaze. The steed is a splendid animal, with a shiny, dark mantle and a flowing mane. She could swear she had seen horses like this, before, but she doesn't know their race name.

“ You're good with him. ” The knight admits, cutting an apple with a knife, and eating it piece by piece.

“ What's his name, milord? ” Clarice asks, curious.

“ Goliath. ” The knight replies, and looking her in the eyes:

“ And yours? ”

It's the very first time she sees his face: he has amber eyes, darker or brighter depends on the light, sculpted cheekbones, underlined by tattoos, a strange, crooked smirk and long hair, partially tied in braids, in a shade of dark ash blond. He's younger than she believed, in his thirties, and in a very good shape, his figure lithe, but strong. With her disappontment, he looks even more attractive than she imagined at first, and it's not good at all: a poor girl like her cannot harbor fantasies for a man like him. She's not even sure of his good nature, or his intentions. He could take advantage on her in a moment, if he would. Something says to her he's not that kind of guy, and plus, he saved her life. She can give him the benefit of the doubt, at least.

“ Clarice, but people call me “The Starling”. Don't know why, in truth.” She answers, blushing.

He smiles scarcely:

“ Well, you sure look like a plucked chick. I will find some clothes for you.” He promises, throwing the apple's core apart.

Clarice cannot hold herself:

“ Why? ”

He looks at her, puzzled:

“ What do you mean? ”

“ I don't even know your name, and you save my life, bring me new clothes... Why you do this, milord? ” She inquires.

The knight avoids her stare for a moment, and watches his hawk, perched on a beam. The answer seems a bit complicated to Clarice, who waits, patiently.

“ It was rude by me. ” He begins: “ I am Tristan of Navarre, but people called me Hannibal, once. I lived in Aygle, years ago, and I know what that particular peal means. A prison break doesn't occur everyday. ” He pauses, studying her:

“ I don't know how you did it, Clarice, but I need you to help me break in inside Aygle's walls.” He says, eventually.

She watches him:

“ I... I can't do it. That place is hell on Earth, milord. The Bishop is the Devil himself, God forgives me.”

He stares at her for a moment, then he draws his sword. Clarice steps backward, but Tristan just wants to show it to her. She sees some gems shine on the hilt.

“ Do you see them? ” He asks, pointing at the gems. She nods, slowly.

“ This one, squared, represents my lineage. This one, the pearl, represents our bond to Rome. It was given to me by the King himself, when I converted. This one, the amber, was given to me by my father. And this one...” There's one missing. Clarice blushes:

“ Oh, I didn't take it, I swear! ” She begins, but he smiles softly:

“ No, I know. This one is for me. I have a mission to accomplish.” Tristan explains.

Clarice look at him, more curious than ever:

“ And what's this, milord? ”

Tristan glances at her, with a dark shadow in his eyes:

“ I must kill a man. ” He hesitates, and then confesses: “ Bishop Germanius.”

The girl falls silent for a while, then:

“ This is why you need me, milord. You want me to show you the way. But I can't. You certainly have friends, braver, stronger than me... ” She tries, but Tristan shakes his head:

“ I don't want to involve others. I assure you that I will free you just before Aygle's walls, once you brought me there. This is my mission. I will win... or I will perish trying.” He states. He looks at the girl:

“ God sent you to me, right now. ” He adds. She makes a grimace, skeptical:

“ Me? ”

“ Who other? Don't you think that's why He allowed you to escape? ”

The girl frowns:

“ Don't be offended, milord, but I talk to God everytime, and He never mentioned you. ”

Tristan smirks:

“ Well, that's disappointing.”

After a moment, he stands, and prepares himself to sleep, heading towards the other side of the barn:

“ Go to sleep, Starling. Don't wake me, or I could kill you before I realize it was you. ”

_That's reassuring_ , Clarice thinks, a second before she falls asleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Will is going to be there in the next chapter. If you know the movie, you know what I'm talking about.


	3. Prime

Just outside the Bishop's gardens, Francis Dolarhyde muses for a long moment that, right now, he preferred to be in the dungeons, rather than before Germanius. He knows very well what means bringing bad news to the man. He's not afraid for his life, not at the moment, at least.

Seeing Navarre again was a shock, he has to admit: he hoped so bad he was dead. His dark eyes pierced him like years before, as time never passed, but all his benevolence towards him was gone.

The knight shakes his head, with a raging gesture: he just can't keep aching for him, that feeling died long ago, when Navarre laid his eyes upon the Anjou boy. A pang of fury makes him shiver. The boy has to die, for good this time.

With a confident gesture, Dolarhyde crosses the gate to the gardens, and moves through roses' bushes and the sweet music of a lute.

He finds Germanius busy in admiring a couple of gorgeous dancers, floating elegantly in long robes. The Bishop glances at him, with a grimace:

“ Have you find the escapee, Dolarhyde? ” He inquires, offering graciously a grape to one of the girls.

“ No, Your Grace.” Francis answers, with a frown.

“ Do you think you can find her in my gardens, perhaps? ” The Bishop mocks him. The girls laugh lightly, in a meek demeanor.

Dolarhyde hesitates for a moment, then:

“ Navarre is back. ”

Germanius freezes. With a gesture of the hand, he dismisses musicians and dancers:

“ Come with me, Dolarhyde.” He commands.

They stroll through the palace's park, Germanius apparently calm:

“ We are living strange times, Dolarhyde.” He begins, in a casual tone. The knight follows him, in silence.

“ My vassals are no obedient how I was hoping at first. Of course, all we honor the King greatly, but I stand for a superior authority. It's my duty. As it's my duty to keep viciousness and sin far away from my honest flock.” He reveals in a pained tone.

“ One single, little thief could be nothing, I agree. But a single straw can burn an entire harvest, if the wind blows strong enough, Dolarhyde. Do you understand? ” The Bishop asks him, in a patronizing voice.

The knight frowns lightly:

“ I'm not sure, Your Grace. ”

Germanius gives him a pitying look:

“ I know very well what affection bonded you to that man, I understood. You did the right thing, as I said you years ago. But, if you recall, I said also that Tristan of Navarre was not what he seemed. Do you remember, Francis? ”

“ You said to me that he was the Devil, Your Grace.” He remembers. Germanius smiles, benevolent as a father:

“ He is the wind blowing on that little fire, Francis. You must quell that fire.”

“ Now I understand, Your Grace.”

“ Excellent. Catch the girl, arrest Navarre. Try to figure out if anyone is helping him. You fought him, I presume? ” The Bishop asks, in a casual tone, again, looking at him blatantly. The scratches from the fight must be very visible. Dolarhyde nods.

“ Have you seen if there was a hawk with him? ”

Dolarhyde sees clearly a shadow darkening Germanius eyes:

“ I cannot say I did, Your Grace. ”

“ There must be one with Navarre. It was a prized bird from my own aviaries. I want it back, assure no one hurt it, Dolarhyde, or another Captain will bring me Navarre in chains. ”

Francis nods again, bows and kisses the Bishop's ring, before leaving. He has an idea.

Clarice wakes up with a startle, shaking lightly. With a frown, the girl stretches on the straw bed and tries to remember her dream. There was her father, she is sure of it. He died many years before, but the girl still misses him dearly. He was a honest man, died too soon.

The Starling snorts, in discomfort: she hates dreams like these, too painful. With a shake, the girl tries to focus on immediate tasks. It's still dark, probably several hours until dawn. She listens for a second to the quiet snorts of the sleeping horse in the barn, but she hears nothing from the knight. Maybe he's a silent sleeper, she muses.

Clarice needs to relieves herself. It's a solid necessity she can accomplish right now, so she stands and leaves the barn quietly.

While she's crouched among some bushes, she thinks again at her strange situation: how could she obey at Navarre's request? Clarice doesn't know how she left the dungeons, she just followed her instincts. Adjusting her vest, Clarice hopes a bright idea would come to her in the next future.

She has almost reached the barn, when a crack freezes her where she is. Could it be a wolf? Or a bear? There are bears in these forests, she muses, her heart pounding madly. The barn is just before her. She can do it. Clarice runs.

There are rapid paces behind her, and a panting. She tries to run faster, but a strong hold pins her to a tree. The girl screams, while a hand turns her. It's the woodcutter who hosts them in the barn.

“ Wha-what do you want? ” She asks, shaking violently. In the dark, she can't see his face clearly, but she can recognize an evil grimace:

“ The money of your master, give it to me! ” He orders, in a grunting bark.

“ He has it, I swear! Don't hurt me, sir, please. ” She pleads, desperate. She's just a girl, and this man is big, tall, and with the brain of a hog, probably. He presses a blade against her throat:

“ Bring me where he keeps the money, brat or I'll cut your throat! ” He barks, again. Clarice thinks rapidly: maybe that idiot thinks that the knight didn't keep the money on his person. She could fake guiding him, then she could awake Navarre screaming. She nods, carefully:

“ I-I know where he keeps it... I'll show you. Plea-please don't hurt me, sir.” She confirms, with a trembling voice, shaking.

The man grabs her sharply and pushes her towards the clearing, pointing the knife among her shoulder blades:

“ Go, and if you try to fuck with me, I'll kill you.” He promises. She starts walking, calmly. He pokes her after a few paces:

“ Move, brat! ”

The barn is very close now, and Clarice heads right towards where Goliath is, pretending she wants to check the pursue hang on its saddle, placed next to the horse.

Right before they could reach it, anyway, Clarice hears the heavy thuds of paws on foliage and a low growl, approaching speedly.

She turns abruptly, and has just a second to see the huge form of a wolf running towards her and the woodcutter, who grunts in surprise.

The girl runs inside the barn, with a terrified scream, and the wolf mauls the man, knocking him down.

“ Milord! Milord! ” Clarice calls, panicked. Navarre simply doesn't answer, nor shows himself.

With nothing else to do, Clarice climbs frantically the stepladder, which brings to a loft, burdened in straws, and looks at the scene outside with wide eyes. The wolf and the man are still fighting on the ground, among growls and suffocated screams. At the first splash of blood, she jumps in horror, frightened that the beast could try to reach her. She comes down in a hurry, running where Navarre should be, but it's impossible he didn't hear all that mess. The knight is clearly not there.

“ Milord! ” She tries again, in vain. A rumble tells her the wolf had dragged the man at a distance from the barn, and the girl reaches for the knight's crossbow, having no idea how to use it.

Fumbling with the bolts, suddendly Clarice feels a hand on her mouth. She mumbles a protest, turning herself, startled.

For a moment, surprise and wonder silence her completely: in front of her, stands a young, impossibly handsome man. His complexion so fair, his skin seems to gleam in the silver moonlight, long, dark lashes framing blue eyes, some curls likewise dark lazily falling on his forehead, plush lips, red as roses. If it wasn't for the fine stubble, chestnut with flashes of copper, she would believe to be in front of some fairy, or angel, like the ones she has seen depicted on churches' walls.

The stranger hushes her kindly, then glances outside the barn. Clarice follows his stare:

“ There is a wolf, a huge wolf, it's dangerous, milord...” She begins, but he walks towards the door:

“ I know. ” He says, in a quiet, far tone.

The girl notices that he seems to wear a black cape, similar or maybe, identical to Navarre's one. A rich, thick garment, dark as ink. It wraps the thin figure of the young man completely, and brushes slightly to the ground. The angelic stranger walks outside, and Clarice follows him, standing on the door, not daring trespassing that limit. The body of the woodcutter lies not far, but the man ignores it, pacing calmly. The moon still shines bright, illuminating the trees with a milky shade, a black spot in the white-grey revealing the man standing as he is waiting for something or someone.

With wide eyes, Clarice watches the wolf, its fur a black velvet cloth, approaching the youth, who follows it through the woods.

The girl runs again to the loft, hiding among the straw, babbling:

“ Oh, God, I didn't see what I believe I've seen, I don't believe what my mind believes. This is magic, this is mistery, please, don't let me partecipate in this sort of things! ” She prays, shaking violently. What's happening, here? Where's Navarre? Who is that young, inhuman boy? Despite her shock, Clarice falls asleep before any answer could come to her.

The old sheperd is a little deaf and misses several teeth, but Dagonet and Bors manage to understand him anyway. With Aygle well visible at a distance, the two knights, standing among a flock of sheeps, have already inquired many villagers, travelers and Aygle's citizens passing. The news are always the same: Bishop Germanius had settled a big hunt for the escapee girl and her accessory, the wicked knight Tristan of Navarre, also known as Hannibal. Anyone caught helping or hiding them is promised a several punishment. Some, more simpleton than others, believe that they would be rewarded greatly, if they catched the wanted first, but Dagonet and Bors know better that Germanius is not certainly a generous or grateful man.

Watching the sheperd walking away along the dusty street, his flock flowing around him like a wave, Bors sighs:

“ Arminius, brother mine, Hannibal seems in great troubles. ” He states. Dagonet nods:

“ If only three years ago he stayed with us. We would have protected him and Galahad. ” He recalls, still confused about the matter. Bors frowns:

“ Yeah, where was Galahad? He wasn't at the hostelry. ” He reminds.

“ Maybe he's prisoner, or worst, dead. ” Dagonet muses. The thought alone is abhorrent. Bors snorts:

“ Tristan would have died with him. ” He says.

“ Perhaps he's looking for revenge. That's why he refused our help. ” Dagonet replies.

“ It could be. ”

Bors looks darkened by this conversation:

“ Galahad and Tristan are our brothers, Dag. We should do something to help them anyway, both alive or not. ” He affirms. His brother nods again:

“ You're right. But even though we are King's knights, we cannot simply slap Germanius and make him confess his crimes, whatever they are. We need some help, Divico. ”

Bors grunts again and looks at the horizon, thinking. Then:

“ I think Vanora told me that old Merlin is traveling this lands, in these days. Maybe, we could ask his advice. ” He says, abruptly.

Dagonet looks pleased by the information:

“ A magician is not hard to find, especially when he is the king's father-in-law. Let's speak to him, I'm sure Tristan went to him often, when he was in Camelot. ”

When Clarice wakes up, nothing could suggest something strange happened in the woods. The barn is quiet, Goliath already curried, the hawk on his perch, Tristan of Navarre busy with a shovel. The girl understands he should have just buried the woodcutter.

A fire is lit, and some food is heating on it. She decides to come down and eat something, before having a pretty strange conversation with the knight.

He barely turns his head, when he notices her, and greets her with a tilt of the head. She answers waving her hand, and quickly, she busies her mouth with some crackers and some hard cheese.

Chewing slowly, she startles when a hand touches her shoulder: Tristan gives her a bowl of warm milk and sit at the other side of the fire. The girl watches the milk, puzzled.

“ The man had a goat. I freed her, and if she's lucky, some sheperd would find her. I found a sack of apples, some bread, dried meat and ale, but it was sour. We are not going to hunt for a few days, at least. ” Tristan informs her, calmly. She cannot understand how he can simply ignore the fact a man was dead. Instead of speaking, she takes a generous gulp of milk and waits.

“ Did you see the wolf? ” He asks, in the same, casual tone.

Clarice nods, still bewildered by the night:

“ It was gigantic, milord. I'm not sad it attacked that man, anyway. He tried to steal from you, milord. ” She reveals.

“ Indeed? Well, we must be grateful to that gigantic beast. You managed yourself, it seems.” Tristan observes.

“ I do it everytime, milord. ” She replies. Clarice doesn't ask where the knight was: it's inappropriate. But she cannot help to feel weird about the entire thing. She muses for a moment, then she adds:

“ There was a young man, here. ”

Tristan looks at her, blatantly curious:

“ Did he speak to you? ” He asks, surprising the girl. She nods:

“ I told him there was a wolf, and he told me he knew that. Then, he went away with it. I believe he was a spirit. He was so beautiful. ” She confesses.

“ Did he tell you his name? ” Tristan inquires again, his tone vague, melanchonic.

“ No, why? ”

The knight smiles, almost sheepishly:

“ This spirit visits my dreams, from time to time. I was thinking... it should be nice to call him by his name, just once. ” He declares, in a soft voice, very different from the one Clarice knows.

Clearing his throat, Tristan stands, abruptly:

“ Alright, prepare yourself, we're leaving. ” He announces. His voice is again the same as always. The girl sighs, and stands, ready to follow.


	4. Terce

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, I managed to write a little during the week, so I can fill the week of no updating. Enjoy!

“ Listen, my friend, I have other things to do, than to pay attentions to yours and my honored uncle's itches. ”

Mason's voice can be heard very clear, even beyond the thick wooden doors. Lady Margot's maids look at each other, but no one of them dare to speak. Margot herself, anyway, put down her embroidery and sighs, heavily. Knowing that her brother is involved in some scheming, it's not a good new.

“ Ignore them. ” She commands firmly to her maids, and keeps working, quietly. Her mind races, though: His Grace the Bishop is evidently furious, Dolarhyde looks more ambitious than ever, and the reason for all that fuss can be only one: Tristan of Navarre. Or, better, Will of Anjou. Margot liked them both, she helped them during the weeks after the banquet.

The young lady never saw a love growing so fast and strong, in such brief time. She gave them the alibi to left the city for Camelot, when became clear that Germanius knew. Margot witnessed also his madness and his rage, but for God's sake, he never discovered her involvement. Mason did.

Margot rolls her shoulders in discomfort, feeling almost the scars pulling and itching. If Tristan and Will are around Aygle again, she doesn't really know what to do to help them, this time. She's basically prisoner in her quarters since three years ago. It'll end in tears and blood, probably.

While she's still lingering on that dark matter, voices come again, closer now:

“ You owe me this, Dolarhyde, remember. ”

The doors open abruptly, and Mason walks in, followed by the Captain of the guards. All maids jumps on their feet, and the lord dismisses them with a careless gesture:

“ Leave my sister, you all: she is good hands now. ” He comments, in mockery. The women leave hurrily, and Margot glances at her brother with an unimpressed face:

“ What do you want, Mason? ” She asks, annoyed, ignoring Dolarhayde completely. She's not aware of the exact role he played in Tristan and Will estrangement, but she knows very well he had a role of some sort.

“ Everytime the sweetest of sister you are, Margot. ” Mason sighs, looking wounded:

“ I hoped you could do me a little favor, sister. Something apt to a young and honorable widow as you are. ” He butters up her, in a false tone.

Margot stands, impatient, casting her embroidery away:

“ Just tell me, Mason. ” She cuts him off.

Mason grins:

“ I just need you to pay a little visit to a certain lady. ” He replies. Margot frowns:

“ You cannot ask me something like that, Mason. This task is all but honorable. ” She retorts, bitterly.

“ Don't be a fool, Margot. Your uncle is a Bishop after all, and this is his specific request. His Grace willingly absolve you, after. ” Mason rebuts, annoyed.

“ I'll come with you, lady Margot. ” Dolarhyde intervenes. Margot rolls her eyes:

“ Lucky me. I don't think I have a choice, anyway. I'll go. Leave me alone. ” she decides.

Mason and Dolarhyde leave, finally, and Margot curses, loudly. After a moment, she calls her attendant:

“ Prepare my horse, I have to leave in short time. ”

She knows she's going to hate every moment of this day.

They are not far from a big village, which hosts a fair. Through bushes and trees, Clarice stands guard on the busy road, where carriages, farmers, herds and merchants are coming and going. She's very careful not to turn back: behind her, indeed, Navarre is changing his clothes, though covered by his cape, hanged like a curtain. The girl is a little flushed, knowing the knight is completely naked just a few inches from her, but she tries to focus on her task.

On a branch next to her, stands the hawk, who gazes at her with its golden eyes, almost challenging her to distract herself.

Clarice startles, when Tristan appears at her side, quiet like a shadow. He's very different from how Clarice knows him: his hair are tied neatly, he wears a red jerkin on a white shirt and shiny boots, something very far from his usual martial garments. For some reason, Clarice suspects this clothes are not his own, but rather borrowed or inherited. Tristan wears a different cape, too, in midnight blue silk. It's so delicate and lavish it could belong to a lady. The girl has never seen something in silk so close, and her fingers itch, craving a touch.

The hawk screeches suddendly, bringing her to reality again. Tristan gazes at her:

“ Do as I said, Starling, stay here and be quiet. It won't be long: we need new clothes for you and some informations. We are reasonably far from Aygle to not raise suspects, but we can't be cautious enough. ” He recommends. The girl nods. The knight mounts Goliath and walks calmly towards the road. Clarice follows him with her eyes, then, when she's sure he's disappeared, she takes the black cape and convinces the hawk to jump on her shoulder:

“ Come on, boy. We must not lose your master.” Clarice tells the bird.

Just before the fence that surrounds the village, the girl retrieves a basket and, once she's sure the hawk is well hidden by the hood, she walks through the gates, calmly.

The Starling is not new to steal into a fair, nor to follow someone, so she sneaks expertly among the people, picking a purse, or a apple, here and there. The figure of Tristan is never too far away, but she's careful to not be noticed.

She's now observing the knight purchasing some clothes, as promised, and her urge to protect him grows stronger. The hawk is surprising calm on her shoulder, and she feels someway safer with it.

Tristan has just left, when she hears a chatter behind her: a group of soldier is pacing through the fair, and they wear the Bishop's insignia.

“ Damn.” Clarice curses quietly, and sneaks quickly at Tristan's heels, eager to alert him.

He's speaking in a low tone to someone who looks like a Woad, when she reaches him:

“ Milord, milord! ” She whispers, very aware he's going to be furious with her.

Indeed, Tristan turns, and Clarice hates the rage she sees in his eyes, but she has more pressing issues, right now:

“ There are some Bishop's soldiers, milord.” She explains, rapidly.

“ And you had to come here to tell me? Fool girl. Come, let's get out from here, and after, I can deal with your recklessness. ” He growls, low. Tristan grabs her arm and hold her tighter, walking speed. She has almost to run, to keep his pace.

They have just reached Goliath, when a scream echoes behind their back:

“ Navarre! ”

“ On the saddle, go! ” Tristan lifts the girl, as she weighed like a feather, and places her on Goliath's back unceremoniously. He pushes the bag he carries on her lap and pats the horse buttocks with strenght. Goliath shies for a second, and Clarice has just the time to grab the rein, before it stands out a run through the fair. Her hood falls backwards and the hawk flies away, but she cannot hope to hold it and the horse together, so she let Goliath carry her away.

The soldiers seem all too busy in trying to catch the knight, rather than follow her, so Clarice manages somehow to leave the village, and reaches the fields nearby. She jumps off the horse, shaking, a faint terror clouding her mind: if the knight was dead, she's completely lost. If he was alive, he would have killed her as soon as he arrived. With bewilderment, she notices she still holds the bag with her new clothes, and tears sting her eyes. No one has been so kind to her, never. And he is now probably dead by her fault, she muses, miserably.

The sun is beyond half of his course, warm and yellow in despite of her distress, and fear and concern make her sweat. What she is gonna do, now?

The girl watches Goliath:

“ I'm sorry, Goliath. I have killed your master... would you carry me, now? I won't be offended, if you won't, I understand you. ” She tells him, caressing its black mane. Clarice let some tears fall on the ground:

“ Oh, Lord, this is your punishment, it isn't? Please, tell me what to do. Give me a sign. ” She prays, clenching her fingers on her heart.

A screech makes her open her eyes: she sees an ugly, grey rouncey trotting towards her, Tristan on his back, and his hawk gliding at his side. Clarice jumps on her feet:

“ Milord! ” She calls, too relieved to worry about anything else. Tristan almost ignores her, dismounts from the horse quickly, pushes its reins into the girls hands and heads towards Goliath, checking it quickly, before jumping on its saddle. Without turning, he asks:

“ Can you ride bareback, I presume. ”

Clarice is not surprised he's angry with her, but she's wounded anyway:

“ Ye-Yes, milord. ” She replies, sheepishly.

“ Move, then. ” He orders, leaving.

Clarice hurries in obeying, and after some time, she reaches him, but she doesn't dare to speak.

Just after some miles of furious silence, Tristan turns abruptly towards her:

“ You're a fool. You could be killed. ” He scolds the girl, harshly.

She bites her lower lip, but she replies:

“ I just wanted to help you, milord. I'm sorry. ”

He frowns:

“ Make me break in the walls of Aygle, if you want to help me. ” He retorts.

She blushes, and doesn't rebut. She's too afraid of Aygle, to promise something like that. But she's grateful to the knight, too. Clarice opens her mouth to say something, but a screech warns them, abruptly.

“ Damn. The guards are after us. Run, Starling! ” Tristan orders her. Clarice hesitates:

“ But...”

“ Go! ”

She shakes her head and guides forward her puny horse. An uproar announces her the soldiers' arrive, and she turns to watch the battle. The hawk flies over the scene, screeching loudly: some men attack Tristan, but he kills them rapidly with his sword, when she notices a soldier with a crossbow. Frantically, she jumps off the horse and picks up a rock from the ground, throwing it with all her strenght towards the man. She manages to hit him, but the crossbow springs up abruptly and the bolt plunges in the hawk's wing. The bird cries, painfully, and begins to glide, slowly, falling from the air.

“ Galahad! ”

Tristan's scream is something inhuman, and pierces Clarice like a blade in the guts. She sees the knight wounded by a blade, but despite his injury, he charges his last opponents with beastly rage, leaving them dead on the ground.

For a moment, the blow of the wind is the only sound that could be heard, while Tristan approaches his hawk cautiously, but concerned: the bird lies on a side, his beak beating in pain. It's alive, but the bolt is plunged deeply among his feathers, staining them with blood. Clarice feels sick, it's all her fault, and her heart clenches, watching Tristan ripping a slice of cloth from his shirt and wrapping his hawk in it:

“ Come on, my heart... you're going to be alright. You'll heal, very soon, I promise... I promise, my heart. ” He whispers, rising the little animal in his arms. For a moment, he looks lost, blood dripping from his shoulder, then, he looks towards the girl, paralyzed in horror at Goliath's side. Tristan walks, unsteady, and extends his hawk to her:

“ Take it. Go west, towards the mountains. You'll find the ruin of a castle, on a crag, You cannot mistake. There lives a priest, Frederick. Give the hawk to him, he can heal it. ” He says. Clarice takes the bird, but her lips tremble:

“ I don't know if I have the time...it's losing so much blood...” She tries, and Tristan growls:

“ Don't you dare say it! Mount my horse and go! ” He commands, his pain umbereable.

The girl obeys, and he holds the reins for a moment:

“ If you fail, I will search for you until the end of the world. Go. Go! ”

Clarice goes.

The house is in the closeness of a deep crevice, in the depths of an old wood. Margot doesn't expect anything else, from a witch's lair. Suddendly, she feels like she's fallen in a fairytale. A dark, twisted one, though.

The hut is crumbling, strangled by brambles, but a thin thread of smoke comes from the chimney, indicating that the place is not deserted. The lady gathers all her courage and knocks at the crooked, thick wooden door.

“ It's open. ” A voice invites her in, a young, musical voice.

The witch is tying some herbs bunches at a wire, suspended over the room: she is really young, tiny, with flaming ringlets of red hair, dressed in neat farmer's garments. She turns around slowly, showing her pale face and cerulean eyes:

“ How can I help you, milady? You need a poison? A fertility potion, perhaps? ”

Margot draws a little bundle from her gown:

“ I was sent to give you this. ” She explains, giving hit to the woman. She opens the folds carefully, then nods.

The witch head towards a little cabinet, fumbles inside for a moment, eventually, she extends a single, silver feather to Margot:

“ Send my regards to His Grace, and tell him I hope he remembers the terms of our agreement. ” She says.

Margot stands for a moment:

“ What my uncle did? ” She asks, frowning.

The witch shakes her head:

“ I am forbidden to talk about this matter. The Bishop knows. ” She dismisses the noblewoman, coming back to her herbs.

Goliath rides through the afternoon, its black coat bathed in the orange light. Clarice's back hurts, for the long ride and the wounded hawk weighs in her arms. She glances at it every few miles, checking if it's alive, anguished.

Finally, after a line of identical moors and hills, she finally spots a crag, and some ruins:

“ Thank God, we're here! Come on, boy, you're safe now. ” The girl reassures the hawk, and spurs the horse for a last effort.

At the castle's grounds, the young thief starts yelling with all her voice:

“ Hey, there! For God's sake, someone answer! ”

“ Hoy! ” A nasal voice retorts: “ Who's there? ”

“ Are you father Frederick? ” The girl rebuts.

“ The very one! What do you want? ” It comes the answer.

“ I was told to bring you a wounded bird! ” Clarice yells.

A dry laugh resounds:

“ Lucky shot, we're going to eat it together! ” The priest proposes, crassly.

The girl snorts:

“ Not at all, father! This hawk belongs to a man called Navarre! ”

A moment of startled silence falls, then:

“ Quick, bring it to me, girl! Quick! ”

She obeys, and the priest meets her at the gates: he certainly should be a sort of refined man, once, but now he's a mess, with stained and worn out robes, a long beard and disheveled hair. He takes the bird from Clarice and guides her to the castle, warning her to walk only on the left, until the door.

Inside a sort of chamber, stuffed with all sort of things, sacks, supplies, books, tools, father Frederick lies the animal on a vast bedding, and dismisses the girl:

“ Go out, I need to gather some herbs to heal hi-it. ” He stutters, agitated.

“ I may be of some help...” Clarice begins, but the priest pushes her outside.

For some moments, the girl contemplates the moor in front of her, the sunset close, then she climbs on a wall, from where she can see the door: she will await for the priest to leave.

He does, after the sun disappeared behind the mountains, grabbing a basket and heading towards a little garden of simples near to the moat.

Clarice watches his tottering figure moving away, then she jumps off and begins to fumble with the door's lock. She needs just a crooked nail to accomplish her task, and after a moment she's inside.

A fire is lit in a corner, and she's bathed for a second in its heat. When Clarice turns, she freezes: there is no hawk, on the bedding.

The young man lies under a ton of furs, his upper, chiseled body naked in the warm glow, his fair skin glittering because a thin veil of feverish sweat. His head is tilted, dark curls falling on his eyes, but he moves slowly, his pale throat pulsing with ragged breaths:

“ Tristan... ” He calls, weakly.

Clarice gives him her back, flushed, bewildered:

“ He's alive, milord. He fought bravely...” She begins, then she cannot resist anymore and turns abruptly:

“ The hawk... was hit. You know that, milord. ” She says, in a whisper.

“ Yes.” The young knight answers, in a murmur.

The girl looks at him with wide eyes, her heart beating madly:

“ Are you... real? ”

The young man gives her a look, a flash of his sapphire eyes:

“ I am pain. ” He rebuts, sighing and tilting his head back again.

The door opens and the priest looks at the both of them:

“ How you...” He starts, to Clarice, then his stare lingers on his patient, on the bedding. There is a softness, there, that Clarice understands, but cannot entirely place. Father Frederick grabs her for an arm:

“ Go outside, now, and stay there! ”

Removed again, and more confused then ever, Clarice obeys and waits. It's a strange, creepy night.

Germanius is in his quarters, the silver feather twisted in his fingers, musing absently, when his nephew knocks at the door. He grants permission, and Mason walks in with a bored pace, snorting:

“ Your Grace. I really wish to know what compelled you to summon me at dusk. ” He states, annoyed, toying with the velvet rope of the bed's curtains.

The Bishop turns slowly:

“ I need you, my dear nephew, to resume your hunting activities. A particular wolf is pestering some herds in the countryside. Farmers say it's a savage beast, bigger than normal and extremely ferocious. Only a hunter like you could help me. ” He butters up Mason, who grins:

“ Don't worry, Your Grace. Its fur is already hung in your chambers. ” He promises.

“ Good. ” Germanius approves, extending the feather: “ Take this little ornament. Silver can be in some use to find that wolf, people say. ” He affirms, without others explanations. Mason looks just a little puzzled, but takes the feather and leaves, calling for his men.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I added some magic, as you can see, and some charachters. Hope you like them, even if their parts won't be very long, in some case.


	5. Sext

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is brief, and here doesn't happen much. It's pretty indulgent in PrettyDamsel!Will, actually.

They meet Merlin on a windy hill, among scattered rocks and expanses of shrubs and scrubs. Orange splashes of dusk's light bathed the landscape, making the bonfire almost disappear. Dagonet notices the wizard first, and stands, Bors glances at him, then turns toward the older man:

“ Merlin, welcome, and thank you for coming meeting us. ” He greets him. Dagonet tilts his head. The Woad former leader is slightly different from the past: the blue painting still lingers on his body and face, but it's faded. He now wears a long tunic, embroided in ancient symbols.

“ It's good to see you, knights. Though, you're help request is not unexpected. ” He states.

Bors look at him:

“ Have you seen something in your fires? ” He asks. Merlin nods:

“ A dark influence lingers on these lands. Some twisted art has been casted, but I'm not familiar with the nature of those spells. ”

“ And what about Tristan and Galahad? ” Dagonet pushes, willing to come to the very core of this gathering.

“ I've searched for them. I have the sensation that they're still together, but I never sense them at the same moment. Anyway, they're surrounded by the same darkness I feel everywhere. ” Merlin answers. He draws a purse, and throws a fistful of its content in the fire. The flames shine brighter for a moment, and Merlin watches in its dephts.

“ You can find Will going west, search for a ruined castle. Be fast, knights.” Merlin warns them: “ It's going to be a strange night, charged with misteries. You must be careful. ”

“ What you're going to do, Merlin? ” Bors asks.

“ I intend to visit Aygle's surroundings, meet with some of my people and value the situation myself, comply the task our king entrusted me. ” He replies.

He blesses the knights, but before leaving, he adds:

“ If you discover what troubles Tristan and Galahad, and you need help, search for anyone of my people, they will know how to reach me. ”

Bors and Dagonet watch him leave, then the latter watches the former:

“ Let's go searching for Will. He may be more open than Hannibal. ” He tries. Bors grunts:

“ That stiff bastard! Always unfriendly, but we loved him, eh, Dag? ” He says, fondly. Dagonet nods:

“ Let's see if we could help him, this time. ”

“ We better follow the wizard's advice and hurry. The night looks gloomy. ” Bors notes, extinguishing the fire. Some dark clouds are gathering in the sky, and a low rumble resonates from afar. A storm is approaching.

Shaking barely, Clarice sits closer to the fire lit in the priest's yard. A cold breeze is blowing through the wrecked walls and towers of the old fortress, bringing aloud the howling of a wolf, and some distant thunders. The young thief wishes she could just hide her head under a blanket, as she did when she was a child, but she can't. What she has seen inside the castle, equally frightens and intrigues her. If the young knight survived, she has too much questions for father Frederick. A wave of anguish clunches her throat, and the wolf keeps howling, persistent, obsessive. Another flashlight brights the night, followed by a thunder, and a soft rain begins to tap on the stony floors and walls. Clarice stands and runs closer the main hall, where the priest is working to heal the man, once hawk. It's so confusing.

Far from there, in his luxurious quarters, wrapped in fine sheets, Germanius is shaken by a sudden nightmare: a pack of wolves chase him inside the very walls of his cathedral, howling madly and growling, their fangs clasping, their claws tickling on the marble floor. He tears violently his vest from the beasts, shrieking in horror. One of the wolf jumps and bites him in the left shoulder. Pain pierces him viciously, and the Bishop shouts, awakening with a startle. The stab of suffering doesn't fade, when he's awake. He grabs his shoulder, grunting and panting, as an arrow is driven in his flesh. Germanius screams, again.

Will has always been a strong man, but his lithe body is shaken anyway with a faint fever, his pale skin glittering with a thin veil of sweat, blood flowing slowly from the wound. It's not deep, but it can be dangerous. Frederick cleans the injury, and mixes the ointment in a little bowl:

“ Don't worry, Will, you'll be fine very soon. ” He assures, in a calming tone. The knight simply nods, weakly. The priest spreads the ointment, gingerly, and grabs firmly the bolt. He reaches for cover Will's eyes but he brushes his hand away, kindly.

A thunder strucks again, the wolf howling on the hills. Frederick pulls the bolt away in a smooth, fast move, and Will screams, loudly.

Germanius wakes again, startled, his heart beating furiously. The pain in his shoulder is still present, but it's decreasing rapidly. He thinks about the silver feather he gave Mason: with the talisman, it would be easy to find them. If only Mason is smart enough to use it. With a shiver, the Bishop rises from his bed, wondering about the reason for that sudden pain, and watching at the moon, pale and bright in the dark night sky. Will is in his human form, now, he muses, his exquisite body like silver and milk. If only... with a snort, the man open the doors of his chambers:

“ Guards! ” He calls. Two men answer immediately, and he commands:

“ Wake my secretary, tell him to put a reward for anyone, farmer or nobleman, who will bring me the furs of black wolves. Before Lauds, anyone in Aygle must be aware of this order! ”

The howling has become a background noise, when father Frederick joins Clarice at the hearth.

“ He's resting.” The clergyman announces, sitting with a sigh. The girl hurries herself in pouring him a cup of wine, from a demijohn she found around.

“ He will be fine, right? ” She asks, almost casually. Frederick gulps his drink:

“ Yes.” He glances at her:

“ What's your name, girl? ” He asks, mildly curious.

“ Clarice.” She answers. After a pause, she adds: “ And his? ”

The priest frowns:

“ I don't know if it's wise to talk you about this story. ” He notes, skeptical. Clarice grunts:

“ I'm not an idiot, father. The wolf. It's him, right? Navarre.”

Father Frederick stares inside his cup, as the words he's searching for, were bobbing in his wine. He sighs again:

“ His name is Will of Anjou, son of the Count of Anjou. Great warrior, his father, one foreign alley to our king. Anyway, when he died, the boy was entrusted to his godfather, the seneschal of Aygle.” The man starts, then his eyes wanders in the flames, dreamily:

“ Everyone present in those days in Aygle certainly remembers the first time they saw him. He's like...”

“ An angel. ” Clarice completes, blushing faintly. Frederick smirks:

“ You too. How blame you. Yes, we were all enamoured with him, one way or another. But it was His Grace, who got caught in the greatest passion. ” He takes another sip:

“ An obsession so violent, so mad, it was terrifying. All useless: Will already gave his heart to his mentor, Tristan of Navarre.” The priest tells. Clarice listens, enraptured.

“ Tristan knew Germanius' cruelty, and after some weeks, he decided to take Will to Camelot, with the pretext to introduce him to the king and the queen. It worked, until...”

Here, Frederick stops. Clarice fills up his cup again:

“ Until? ” She pushes.

“ They were betrayed. Germanius sent one of his priests to lure them again in Aygle, with a trick. ”

Frederick spits in the fire, disgusted:

“ That priest was a fool, ambitiuos and vain. He dreamed of what God knows reward. He didn't imagine what jealousy and lust did to the Bishop: he went completely mad, he exhiled the seneschal and he imprisoned Sir Navarre, swearing that he would have spared his life, if Will granted his desires. He never surrendered.” the priest smiles, proudly, but his tone is bitter:

“ One night, finally, someone helped the two escaping from Aygle, but the rage of the bishop chased them for days, until he found a witch, who, at his request, cursed the two lovers in the terrible way you have seen with your eyes, Clarice: by day, Will becomes the beautiful hawk you brought here, and by night, the howl you hear is Navarre's cry. ”

The girl is in a full turmoil of emotions: she's sorry for Navarre and Will, she's shocked by the Bishop's evilness, she's confused, because of the magic involved, but most of all, she's sympathetic towards the love the two men feel for each other. They're stunning together, they look like ancient gods, and they're knights. With tears in her eyes, she sighs:

“ Always together, eternally apart. ” She declares, softly.

Father Frederick nods:

“ For all the rest of their lives, until the sun will rise, and the moon shine. ” He stares at the girl:

“ You have stumbled onto a tragic story, Clarice, and now, whether you like it or not, you're lost in it. With the rest of us. ”

Hours later, raindrops falling gingerly, making a tickling but relaxing sound, Clarice lays on a bedding, not far from where Will sleeps. Frederick has retired to his own bed, after a check on the wound, but the girl can't just rest. Too much emotions, for a single night.

Suddendly, with a barely audible whine, Will awakes, stirring his cramped limbs. The young thief sits, approaching the man:

“ Please, don't move, milord. You'll bleed again. ” She warns him, softly. Will blinks a couple of times and turns his head towards her, studying her face for a moment:

“ You're the girl who travels with him. I've heard the priest calling you “Clarice”, right? ” He inquires, politely. She nods, very aware of her blushing. He's a complete charm, in the flutter of his long lashes, his plump lips, his voice.

“ People calls me “The Starling”. ” She adds, by force of habit.

Will lifts a brow, amused:

“ It fits you. I know something about birds. ” He declares.

Clarice smiles. Will lets his eyes wander around the room, then brushes his curls backwards, with his fingers:

“ Thank you for bringing me here. ” He says, seriously. The girl flushes again:

“ It's nothing, really, milord. ”

“ Not at all, I owe you my life. But...” Will pauses:

“ Tell me about Tristan. Please. ”

Clarice muses, for a moment:

“ He said to me: “ You must save this hawk, for he is my life. The greatest, last reason for me to live.” ” She makes up. Clarice is truly convinced that both crave to hear love words from each other.

Will, obviously knows she's lying, but he appreciates her intent:

“ Thank you, little Starling. ”

He sighs, closing his sapphire blue eyes:

“ I'll try to sleep a bit. It's nice sleeping in a bed, from time to time. And with such a lovely guardian.” He smiles.

Clarice truly wonders who, if Navarre or Will, will be the first to drive her mad.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I think next chapters will be longer. Some magic will happen, let's see. And just a note on quotes: I think they're are not exactly the same, but I saw the movie in English just a couple of times, so I'm just translating the quotes from my mother tongue. I also found the movie's script on the internet, but I used it just for one line, that I love and find very iconic.


	6. Nones

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay, real life is quite overwhelming.

Mason just hates rain, wind, forests and putting his ass on a saddle in the middle of the night, but even he can't just ignore Bishop Germanius' orders. With a grimace, he draws the silver feather from his purse, and observes it carefully: he's not naïve, he knows something about magic, patiently and secretly taught by his uncle himself, but the talisman yet haven't brought him anywhere.

“ Damn his pestering wolf! Why don't search for it in the morning? ” He complains, to no one in particular. Mason looks at the sky: dawn is not far by now, but it'll require another full hour to come back to Aygle. He summons his men:

“ Let's come back. We will search for the wolf by daylight. ”

The squad turn the horses, and they have travelled just a few miles, when Mason notices the ruin of a fortress on a crag, and smoke coming from inside: even wrecked, it's clearly inhabited. He calls for three men:

“ Go, and inspect that ruin. Maybe someone knows something about that stupid beast. ” He orders. The soldiers nod and take their leave. He resumes his ride: a good fire and some wine look much better than that soaked, terrible night. He doesn't notice the feather shining and shaking in his purse.

Will wakes up with a gasp: he knows the voices of the men knocking at the wooden door. Frederick rushes in front of him and the girl, with a rusty pike in his hands:

“ This place is sacred, who yells at its door in a way so insolent? ” He shrieks. Will rises half from the bed:

“ Father...” He tries, but the voice outside yells louder:

“ We' re here for Will of Anjou, mad priest! We are his friends! Divico and Arminus! Bors and Dagonet! ”

“ Father! ” Will repeats: “ I know them, please let them in...” He coughs. Clarice pours him some water:

“ Do as he say, father! ” She pushes. Frederick looks worried, but obeys, eventually.

Bors looks at him wit a grimace, but his face lightens, when he sees Will:

“ Gal! ” He calls, jovially. Dagonet follows his steps more discreetly, and glances outside for a while, before closing the door.

Bors hugs his youngest comrade, but notices immediately the bandage on his shoulder:

“ What happened to you, lad? Where is Tristan? ” He asks, concerned.

“ I got injured, and I don't know. ” Will replies, in a slippery tone. Dagonet gazes at Clarice:

“ I know you, girl. You are the little thief at the hostelry. ” He underlines. Bors turns his head towards her:

“ You're right, brother. What do you do here, girl? ” He inquires, puzzled.

Clarice opens and closes her mouth: she is not sure what she can and cannot say:

“ I brought milord here.” She answers, eventually.

The knights look at the priest:

“ You must know something, priest.” Bors pushes. Frederick lowers the pike:

“ If Will won't say anything, I will keep his secret. It's better for you to go, Gentlemen. ” He declares. Bors takes a step towards him:

“ Hell, no! Merlin told us where to find Will. We're here to help. ” He states.

Will gasps, barely, his eyes wide:

“ You met Merlin? ” He asks. Dagonet nods:

“ Yesterday at dusk. He spoke about some... spell, or something. ” He replies.

Bors intervenes:

“ We met Tristan, too, a few days ago. He didn't tell you? ” He asks Will.

The young knight lowers his gaze:

“ He and I... don't speak to each other anymore.” He affirms, softly.

Bors and Dagonet look at each other, disbelieving:

“ How? ” Dagonet wonders: “ A bond like yours...”

Will sighs, and turns his head away. Clarice drapes the furs on him, trying to confort him:

“ Don't ask, milords. It's a sad matter.” She says.

“ But...” Bors, begins, when a shout is heard from outside.

“ You, in the castle, open the gates! Bishop's orders! ”

Clarice startles, and Frederick murmurs:

“ Oh, God...”

But the knights are ready:

“ Girl, take Will away! ” Dagonet commands to Clarice, who jumps on her feet and helps Will rising. Bors glances at the priest:

“ Hold that pike tight, priest! ” He recommends, inebriated by the approaching fight. He and Dagonet stands shoulder to shoulder in front of the door, while Frederick yells back:

“ This is a sacred place, you infidel! Not a brothel! ”

“ In the name of the Bishop, open the gates, old man! ” The soldier rebukes.

“ I know the Bishop's men very well, and you don't look like one of them! ” The priest insists, trying to gain time. Clarice and Will have already disappeared in the labyrinth of the castle's aisles.

“ Let's break down those damned gates! ” The soldier shouts at his comrades, who obey.

Frederick looks at the knights:

“ I have some tricks. ” He assures. A few moments later, they hear the sound of the gates crashing, and after a moment, the scream of a man falling in the moat. Anyway, the survivors are approaching fast. They start to pound at the door, until it crashes with a dry slam: Bors and Dagonet jump forward, facing the soldiers with their swords.

Clarice and Will can only hear the distant clatter of metal on metal, some grunts and scream from the men fighting downstairs. The girl holds her grasp on the young knight's hand, guiding him in some room where they could find shelter, until the intruders are finally defeated. She spots a promising fortified garrison, but an enemy comes out abruptly from the stairs she's trying to reach, and she is forced to an halt and to turn in the opposite direction. Clarice hears clearly Will panting behind her, clearly exhausted:

“ Come on, milord, you'll be safe, I promise.” She pushes him, running.

At least, the only option she has is a trapdoor leading to a bastion or a tower. She hesitates, but Will gestures to her to hurry herself and she opens the trapdoor with a kick and lets Will climbing out first.

“ Oh, great. ” She hears, while crawling out and closing the hatch. They're on a crumbled tower, like anything else in that wicked castle. Around them, many feet in the void, rocks and the mountains. Clarice peeks from the crenellation, considering the height, and Will shakes his head:

“ It's too high. We can't climb.”

Clarice nods: it's almost dawn, the sky begins to grow azure at the horizon. Their allies should defeat the soldiers soon, she hopes. Will grimaces:

“ For once, I regret not having my wings. ” He jokes, bitterly. Clarice gazes at him:

“ Do you... ehm... remember your human life, while you're an hawk, milord? ” She asks.

He looks at her, thoughtful:

“ It's hard to describe. I normally feel hunger, thirst, pain, when I'm an hawk, but I also recognize Tristan as my master. I don't remember what happened during the day, precisely. I know if I felt cold, warm, if I feared something, but not much else. I know always how to find Tristan, anyway. ” He tells, with a sort of sad fondness in his voice.

Clarice listens, with a pang of sorrow in her heart: she would do anything to help them, now. The girls opens her mouth to reply, but a strong thud makes both startle: their pursuer has reached them and he's currently trying to crash the hatch. Without thinking, Clarice shields Will with her body, and the man arises from the hole with his sword drawn. She's unarmed, but she throws herself on the soldier, anyway. The man is so surprised, he doesn't have the time to use his sword, and Clarice grabs his neck with a growl, trying to knock down him.

For some, briefs moments the soldier and the girl fight, but suddenly, he shakes his opponent from him with a violent jolt, and pushes her on the young man in front of the crenellations. The push is so strong, it makes them both fall beyond the railing.

With a chilling scream, Clarice feels herself falling and it's just good luck she manages to grasp a the railing and Will's hand both. The knight is way too heavy for a thin girl like her, but she holds him with all her strenght. His hand is slippery and she clenches her teeth in effort, praying desperately.

“ Hold on! Hold on! ” Will yells, feeling his hand losing the grip on her. With a shake of horror, Clarice knows abruptly her hand is free, and Will is falling.

“ No! ” The girl screams, sobbing, squeezing her eyes close.

In that moment, the sun seems to explode around the scene, with flaming blades of morning light. Panting, Clarice opens her eyes again, and watches behind her: there's no man anymore, in a sort of halo she can recognize something which looks like more than an angel, before, in a moment, it turns to the familiar shape of the hawk. The bird shrieks, loudly and very alive, and aims towards the soldier, still on the top of the tower. Clarice hears another scream, and her assaulter falls down, crashing himself on the rocky clearing at the tower's foundations.

With her heart beating madly, Clarice climbs again, and reaches some firm ground, with shaky legs. The hawk is nowhere, but the trapdoor opens again, revealing Navarre.

“ Milord! ” She shouts, in relief, throwing herself in his arms. Blushing furiously, she lets him go immediately, and clears her throat, embarassed. Mercifully, Navarre ignores her awkwardness and escorts her downstairs, his hawk again in his shoulder.

They're welcomed by father Frederick, Bors and Dagonet, all in perfect health. The eyes of the priest linger on the bird, but he says nothing. Tristan glances at his former comrades with a grimace:

“ What are you doing here, brothers? ” He asks, mildly displeased by their presence. Both notice that, and Bors snorts:

“ Look how this half-savage is grateful to us! We saved Will, for the records... where is he? ” He asks, frowning.

Tristan avoids his stare:

“ It's... complicated. ” He says, but Dagonet shakes his head:

“ Gal sold us the same story. What's happening, Tristan? ”

Navarre reaches unconciously for his hawk, caressing its feathers:

“ We are not the same anymore.”

“ Did you two broke up? ”

“ No, Gods... of course not.”

“ So? ”

“ They were cursed.” Frederick intervenes. Navarre gazes at him, but stays silent. The priest summarizes the story for the knights, who are more disbelieving than before.

“ And you don't know who this witch is? ” Dagonet inquires. Tristan shakes his head:

“ I was never able to find her. She has no name, apparently. No one knows where she lives. Of course, Germanius protects her. ” He answers.

Bors grunts:

“ Well, let's find her. She must know how to break this damn spell. We find her, we persuade her, end of the question. ” He says.

Father Frederick sighs:

“ It's not so simple. We can't know what measures has His Grace taken to protect this secret. ” He underlines.

“ I don't care, I'm going to kill Germanius anyway. And that witch, too. ” Navarre growls.

“ No, if you kill him, the curse will never ends! ” Frederick admonishes him, but he snorts:

“ What else should I do? Waiting for an hunter to kill me? Waiting for another arrow to... ” He doesn't finish the sentence.

Clarice clears her throat:

“ Maybe... maybe someone knows how to find that witch. The emblems on the soldiers' tunics are not the same as the Bishop's ones. ” She tries.

“ They must be Mason's men. ” Tristan replies, then he adds: “ Maybe Margot...” He whispers, thoughtful.

“ Who's Margot? ” Bors asks.

“ Germanius' niece. A lady of great influence. If someone knows how to find that witch, could be her. ” The priest answers: “ It's a good idea. Maybe the only one valid. There is another thing.” He adds.

All the presents in the room turns towards him. He looks a bit daunted, but he speaks:

“ In a week from now, there will be a day without night and a night without day.”

“ Is this possible? ” Dagonet asks, frowning.

“ Of course not. Listen, father, I'm grateful for what you did, but I'm going to do this alone. ” Tristan affirms, and leaves the room, certainly preparing his horse.

Bors and Dagonet start their protests, but Clarice follows the knight outside:

“ Let the thing in my hands.”

She reaches Navarre, who is saddling Goliath:

“ Milord! Milord.” She calls. He turns, his face kind, for his standards:

“ I didn't thank you. I owe you, Clarice. ” He says, sincerely.

“ It's nothing, sir. Are you leaving? ”

“ Yes. You're free, now.”

“ Yes, sir...”

“ You don't have any obligation towards me-us.”

“ I know, sir. But, I think I'm going to Aygle anyway. ” Clarice states. Tristan fixes her:

“ Really? ”

“ Really. ”

Navarre smiles, despite everything:

“ Gather your things, we're leaving soon.”

Clarice smiles back and runs to the castle again:

“ Milords, father, follow us, I'm leaving with Captain Navarre.”

If only she's clever enough, she could persuade Navarre in taking her idea for good. She hopes to be smart, once again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is short, I know. And I'm bad with action scenes.

**Author's Note:**

> It's just a flashback prologue


End file.
